Chapter 132: Warlord
One of the many war camps on the Matarok side of the border under Warlord Vise. The warriors were training, sharpening their weapons, and preparing for combat–as always. Non-warriors cooked, cleaned, looked after the horses and kept the camp running.
However, in a solitary corner, there was a young warrior separated from the others, sparring with the air.
"So, where you from, boy?"
Kilan didn’t turn around to look at the person talking to him. He kept swinging his sword.
"Here. Sir."
The man talking to Kilan raised an eyebrow and walked around him to get a look at his face.
Young, tall, lean, almost skinny. Dark hair that hadn’t been washed in probably forever. Clearly a loner.
"I haven’t seen you around before. Do you not train with the other warriors?"
"I do not. Sir." Kilan glanced at the man. He was shorter than Kilan, but not by much. He was much older, though, and, without a doubt, a veteran who had seen his fair share of fighting.
"Because you train using this old-fashioned sword style?"
"Yes."
"Just hacking away at air and dummies won’t get you far. Ever considered changing?"
"Not really." At this point, Kilan was getting a little tired of the man’s questioning. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Warriors held higher rank than trainees. Veterans, doubly so. As for a veteran with attendants...? Kilan wouldn’t be surprised if the man beside him was a warbrother to the warlord himself.
Kilan didn’t want to take the risk of upsetting a man of such influence, even if bothered during training was irritating.
"I see. Do you mind me asking how you got your hands on this style?"
Army-Slaying Swordsmanship was outdated, and many, especially of the older generations, recognized it at a glance. But the training methods had long since been scrapped in favor of other, better sword styles.
"Is that any of your business?" Kilan quickly shot back, not even considering answering the question. His tone was far from polite, and if the man wanted to, he could probably punish Kilan for it.
Kilan couldn’t be bothered pandering to him any longer and simply threw himself into his swordsmanship, taking one step forward and unleashing a horizontal slash at the empty air.
The dark-haired man’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the faint scar left in the sword’s wake. He broke into a grin.
"You’re coming with me, boy," He said, putting a hand as firm as a mountain on Kilan’s shoulder.
Kilan felt a shiver run down his spine.
"Be ready two rotations before dawn." The man left those words behind before turning around and continuing around the camp.
Kilan stared at his back in confusion until another young man walked over with firm strides and his hand on the sword at his hip.
Kilan was tall, but Makra wasn’t short, and he managed to look down at Kilan by craning and stretching his neck. He crossed his arms, stopping close enough for Kilan to see the pores on his face.
"What did the Warlord want with you?" He demanded.
One of Kilan’s eyebrows rose slightly at that.
"What’s that got to do with you?"
"Just answer the damn question, Vulture," Makra growled, stepping close enough to tap his forehead against Kilan’s.
Kilan met Makra’s forehead without letting himself get pushed back. He looked into Makra’s eyes as he spat on the ground between them.
"Why don’t you ask the Warlord? Chicken."
Unable to control himself at the last word, Makra unfolded his arms and pushed Kilan. Kilan involuntarily stepped back and raised his arms to push back. Makra stood rooted like a tree and simply pushed Kilan again instead of being pushed.
Kilan raised his fist and aimed for Makra’s square cheek. Makra caught his wrist and whipped Kilan across the face with the back of his hand.
Kilan wrenched his arm free and wiped it across his mouth, dragging a bloody streak across it. He glared at Makra.
"Are you going to tell me?" Makra asked, taking another step. He already knew the answer. This wasn’t the first time they had shared this dance.
"Fuck you, Chicken."
***
Warlord Vise looked at the two youngsters he had personally scouted for this mission. Only a few minutes remained before it was time to set off when they arrived. That wasn’t a problem on its own.
However, it became a problem when one of them showed up covered head to toe in bruises and the other had bruised and scraped knuckles. It was too late to find their replacements.
Vise sighed tiredly.
"I’m too old for this."
Kilan and Makra trembled.
The Warlord had seen something in the both of them, and thus recruited them for this secret mission.
Since they, two rookies, were part of it, it probably wasn’t that important, but at the same time, it was led directly by the Warlord in charge of this part of the border. It was still something that would decide their futures as fighters of Matarok.
And they had fought each other until Kilan passed out yesterday just because he refused to give the obvious answer to Makra’s question.
"You two numbnuts better not have broken anything. If you did, tell me now, and I’ll at least spare your lives. If you drag the squad down during the mission, I’ll tear off your legs and leave you to bleed out in the forest," Vise eventually said, looking between the two idiots.
"No broken bones, here, Sir. I made sure to hold back," Makra said with a hint of pride and two hints of relief.
"The forest...?" Kilan, on the other hand, got hung up on what Vise had just said.
Vise nodded firmly and turned his gaze toward the verdant barrier in the distance. The third corner of the Tiabe-Matarok-Vorad triangle.
"Yes, that forest. For reasons unknown, Tiabe has become impossible to see through with even the Ruler’s Eyes. That means Vorad won’t be able to see through it either. The border, on the other hand, is strictly guarded on both sides.
"Most likely, Vorad is also launching an expedition through the forest as we speak. Our goal is to intercept that expedition and, if possible, launch an attack on Vorad," Vise explained, briefing not just Kilan and Makra, but also the other warriors he had chosen to accompany them.
The blood in Kilan and Makra’s bodies froze. This was far more important a mission than they could ever have anticipated. It was a suicide mission that could change the course of the war or fizzle out into nothing.
It wasn’t that they were scared.
It was a great honor to be chosen for this mission.
But...
Kilan glanced at the seasoned, grizzly veterans standing by Vise. Experienced, hardened warriors, each of whom could defeat a squad of ordinary Vorad soldiers on their own, led by a Warlord.
Then, there were the two fresh-faced idiots who still smelled of goat’s milk.
Kilan gulped.
They were bait.